The Bitterroots – C.J. Box

The Crazy Mountains were on fire and Cassie Dewell sat alone in her car at night on McLeod Street across from the Grand Hotel in Big Timber, Montana, looking for a twenty-four-year-old reprobate known as Antlerhead. That’s when the call she’d been dreading came on her cell phone. It was from Rachel Mitchell, the primary defense attorney in the firm of Mitchell-Estrella in Bozeman. It was from Rachel’s personal cell phone rather than from her office, which was unusual in itself. The attorney was working late and it meant a chit had come due. The call created a stab of cold dread in Cassie’s gut. She didn’t need the distraction of a call from Rachel Mitchell at that moment. A call from her meant Cassie’s life could be altered one way or another. She declined to answer and let it go to voice mail so she could return it later. * She brushed crumbs from a half-dozen chocolate-covered mini-donuts from her lap and lifted her gaze from the empty sidewalk that led to the front door of the hotel to the fire on the distant mountain. It was mesmerizing and officially out of control. The long fire line extended across the entire southern face of the range like an orange zipper. It dipped into canyons and emerged on the other side. It raced down over meadows and plateaus in spots but never broke contact with the extended fire line itself. Because it was dark, there was no delineation between the fresh fuel in front of the blaze and the smoking cinders behind it.

The fire seemed like a living thing, a snake, a nocturnal beast more alive at night than during the day. It burned bright enough that it stained the bellies of low-hanging clouds with pink hues. When Cassie closed her eyes, the fire lingered as if imprinted inside her eyelids. She could imagine the line of fire eating its way down through the timber and eventually consuming the grassland of the prairie all the way to I-90 and Big Timber itself unless the wind turned it west or south. Like most of the summer, the September air was thick with smoke. It haloed the few downtown streetlights and she could smell it on her clothing. She had a sore throat from breathing it in all day. On some mornings, she brushed a thin film of white ash from the hood and windshield of her Jeep Cherokee as if it were snow in the winter. It had been the Summer of Fire in Montana, and it wasn’t over yet. She thought about how many fires there were—seventeen at last count throughout the state—and how they’d likely keep burning until the snow finally put them out.

They could be seen from space. Both the state and federal budget for fighting them had run out of funds in mid-August. Hundreds of thousands of acres of timber had burned. So much that the numbers no longer had meaning. Several hundred mountain cabins and homes were destroyed and dozens of towns had been evacuated more than once. Against the backdrop of the Summer of Fire the case for finding Antlerhead seemed very small in the grand scheme of things. She felt small as well. The phone in her lap chimed and lit up again and Cassie was afraid it was Rachel again. Instead, it was a text message from her fourteen-year-old son Ben, who was home in Bozeman, sixty-one miles to the west. When R U home? She replied that it would be a few hours, that he needed to do his homework and go to bed and to not wait up for her.

She’s feeding me brown rice again. She meaning Cassie’s mother, Isabel, a free spirit and self-proclaimed progressive who had recently returned from North Dakota where she’d been participating in protests against an oil pipeline opposed by indigenous people. Since getting back she’d refused to cook or serve anything white. Cassie pondered her response. At least Ben was getting dinner when his own mother wasn’t home to prepare a meal. There was that. Before she could tap something out Ben asked, Can I ride my bike to McD’s? It was warm enough outside and Bozeman was safe enough to say yes. McDonald’s was three blocks away. But giving Ben permission to skip Isabel’s meal would undermine her mother’s authority. It would fan the flames on the tension between them that was already smoldering like one of the fires in the mountains.

Cassie texted: We’ll go there tomorrow. Ben replied with: Like U’ll be home for once. It was followed by an angry face emoji. Good night. I love you. The words “I love you too, Mom, and I realize you have to work late so we have a nice home to live in and food on the table” didn’t appear on her phone. In fact, Ben didn’t text back at all and Cassie sighed and swallowed a lump in her throat. She could stare at the screen and wish for those words to appear but this was Ben’s way when he was angry with her. He knew that the meanest thing he could do to her was to withhold his affection. That it would hurt her more than anything he said.

When she looked up, she saw a rail-thin form emerge from the alley behind the Grand and dart back into the shadows to avoid being seen by a passing car. Antlerhead. She’d guessed right. * Antlerhead’s given name was Jerry Allen. He’d received his nickname several years before while on work release from the Montana State Prison in Deer Lodge after his conviction for a series of house and cabin burglaries. Allen was assigned part-time at a wild game processing facility outside of Anaconda during hunting season. That’s where he hefted the newly delivered severed head and the set of six-by-six antlers onto his shoulders and said to his co-workers and fellow inmates, “Look at me— I’m an elk!” seconds before he slipped on a smear of blood and his strength and balance gave out. A hundred and twenty pounds of antlers crashed down on top of him and laid him out on the loading dock. One of the sharp tines entered his skull just above his right eyebrow and another halved his clavicle and punctured a lung. His next job, once he was released from the hospital after a two-month stay and ten months of physical rehab courtesy of Montana taxpayers, was in the prison laundry.

Antlerhead later went on to become one of the most inept heroin dealers in Gallatin County. He’d been arrested along with two others for selling heroin laced with fentanyl to three male Montana State University students in Bozeman. All three Bobcats were rushed to the emergency room at Bozeman Health Deaconess. While two recovered, the third went into a coma and lingered for months before regaining consciousness. That the third student survived meant Allen avoided additional homicide charges to those already levied against him: felony charges of criminal possession of dangerous drugs, criminal manufacture of dangerous drugs, criminal possession with intent to distribute dangerous drugs, and conspiracy. The recent arrest photos of him showed a rail-thin, gaunt-faced man with a mop of brown hair, a long crooked nose, and dull feral eyes. Above his right eyebrow was a sunken red dent of a scar that was no doubt the spot where the antler tine had penetrated his skull that resulted in his nickname. Cassie was reminded that in just about every instance losers looked like losers. Allen was a poster child for losers. Antlerhead Allen was going to go back to prison in Deer Lodge for a very long time, which was fine with Cassie.

That’s where he belonged. Except that following his arraignment hearing two days before, after his parents scraped together the $150,000 bond that allowed him to walk out of the county jail until his criminal trial, Antlerhead had vanished. And his parents were on the hook for the money. * Cassie shifted her weight on the seat and winced. She’d been sitting in her car so long that her right butt cheek had gone numb. Her stomach rumbled from her dinner that consisted of a box of Hostess chocolate-covered donuts and an energy drink from a convenience store. She’d vowed to stop eating like that until she dropped twenty pounds. Unlike Ben, who wore slim-fit jeans and didn’t have an ounce of fat on him, Cassie should be eating Isabel’s brown rice. Like always when she was on the job, she wore her unofficial Montana PI uniform: jeans with enough play in them that she wasn’t uncomfortable sitting in a car for long hours, a roomy blouse, and a tunic or jacket. She always wore her tooled cowboy boots for a couple of reasons.

One was a nod to her state and her upbringing. The other was that she could tuck a backup weapon into the shaft of her right boot. Plus, she never stood out in Montana because of her clothing. She’d kept a close eye on the alley behind the Grand Hotel for another glimpse of Antlerhead. She didn’t want to try and go after him if he was there in the dark. Instead, she wanted him to appear on the illuminated sidewalk and his identification could be confirmed before she took any kind of action. Several people had left the Grand, climbed into their vehicles, and driven away. There were now five autos parked diagonally at the front of the hotel—a sedan, a crossover, and three pickups. All had Montana plates. She knew from walking around the block before dark that employee parking was next to the building on a gravel lot.

There were four cars in the lot. From where Cassie had strategically parked her Jeep, she could see the front and side doors of the hotel as well as the employee lot. If Antlerhead was lurking in the alley as Cassie suspected he was, he would be blocked from viewing any activity from the front and side doors. But he’d have a clear angle on the employee parking from the back corner of the building. Which, if her working theory was correct, would be what Antlerhead cared about most. Nayna Byers. The waitress Cassie had met who worked at the Grand. * To find Antlerhead, Cassie had placed a call to the administration office of the Montana State Prison and asked for Johnny Ortiz. She’d worked with him when they were both deputies at the Lewis and Clark County Sheriff’s Office in Helena. Since then, she’d moved to North Dakota and Ortiz had taken a job with the Department of Corrections.

Ortiz had provided background and unofficial intel to her before, and in turn Cassie always left a dozen cinnamon rolls from Wheat Montana at the front desk for him every time she passed through Deer Lodge. After small talk about the fires, Ortiz tapped on his keyboard and told Cassie that during Antlerhead’s incarceration he had only four names on his approved visitor list: his parents Buford and Nadine Allen, his defense attorney, and Nayna Byers of Big Timber. Cassie wrote down the name and thanked Johnny for his help. She could tell from his hearty, “You bet, Cassie,” that he was grateful she hadn’t asked him for anything dubious or untoward. Visitor lists for prisoners were public records. It took less than two minutes on the internet to find her. * Apprehending Antlerhead and delivering him back to his parents’ house could get tricky. Cassie couldn’t legally arrest him or detain him without cause and Antlerhead hadn’t actually broken any laws that she was aware of. She’d notified the Big Timber PD via email from her phone of her presence there earlier in the afternoon but she hadn’t said what she was doing other than “investigating a case.” She’d done it as a courtesy.

There was no requirement to alert the locals but it was good policy if things went haywire or if she was questioned by the police as to why she was in their town with an array of equipment and weapons. She didn’t want to call them now. A police car might spook Antlerhead and she might lose him. Or the cops might provoke him into doing something stupid like resisting arrest that would result in another charge and another bail for his parents. * Her strategy was simple: confront him and firmly persuade him to go back to his home with her. She would tell him about the financial consequences his parents faced if he refused to come with her and she hoped he’d feel some guilt about that. Additionally, she’d let him know that she was duty-bound to inform the court that he’d disregarded the judge’s instructions to stay home. Which meant he’d go back to lockup. She knew Antlerhead was not a smart person. She could only hope he was smart enough to realize that the best thing he could do for himself was to let her take him back.

Nevertheless, Cassie patted herself down to check her gear and weapons. Her .40 Glock 27 was on her hip and her five-shot .38 snub-nosed Smith & Wesson was in an ankle holster. There was a Taser in her large handbag on the passenger seat as well a canister of pepper spray, a Vipertek mini stun gun, and several pairs of zip ties. Since she’d opened her agency she’d never once been in a situation where it was necessary to draw any of her lethal or nonlethal weapons. She hoped the streak would continue. The most important tool she had on her person was the most innocuous—her cell phone. She’d activate the recording app before leaving her Jeep and keep it running during her confrontation and conversation with Allen. Digital audio records had come in handy dozens of times in her career when it came to proving what had actually transpired.

If nothing else, she could play it back for the Allens to prove that she’d earned her fee if Antlerhead didn’t bite. * Cassie caught a glimpse of yellow light from the shadowed side of the Grand as a side door opened and someone exited. It wasn’t one of the public doors and Cassie assumed it accessed the kitchen. When it closed she couldn’t see the figure well. Cassie had a night vision scope in the back of the Jeep but she didn’t want to call attention to herself by climbing out to get it. So she waited, narrowing her eyes and hoping they’d adjust to the dark or that the person would move into the light. It wasn’t necessary, though, because Nayna Beyers thumbed a lighter and raised it to the tip of a cigarette in her mouth. Cassie could identify her clearly. The flame went out and was replaced by the lone red cherry of Nayna’s smoke. The cherry on the end of Nayna’s cigarette was suddenly bobbing up and down and advancing down the sidewalk.

Then Nayna appeared in a pool of yellow from the streetlight near the front of the Grand. She was walking quickly and looking over her shoulder toward the back. Antlerhead was right behind her, loping from the alley. Apparently, he’d seen her come out for her smoke break as well and when he caught up with her, he grabbed her by her arms and spun her around to face him. Her cigarette dropped into the gutter with a display of sparks. Cassie cursed herself for not seeing it coming and she opened the door of the Jeep and pushed herself out. The call from Rachel had thrown off her concentration. She fumbled for the recording app on her phone as she walked quickly across the street toward Nayna and Antlerhead. Nayna struggled to break his grip. Cassie took a deep breath to calm herself.

She hadn’t expected Antlerhead to escalate the situation so quickly. “I just want to talk to you,” Antlerhead said. “Let me go, you asshole.” “Nayna, please. I just want to talk.” “There’s nothing to say. Let me go or I’ll call the cops. I’ll start screaming.” He prevented that by wheeling her around again so he could clamp her in a headlock with his left arm across her throat. Cassie heard a muffled yell, and Antlerhead said, “Stop it, Nayna, goddamn you.

I don’t want to hurt you. I fucking love you.” Nayna’s eyes were wide open and panicked but they locked on Cassie’s approach. Antlerhead hadn’t seen her yet because he was so focused on getting Nayna to stop struggling. Cassie gave up on turning on the recording app—too many wasted seconds, too many stupid swipes of the screen—and she thumbed the icon for her camera. A red dot appeared and she punched it. She was now recording video and she raised her phone to chest level and aimed it at Antlerhead and Nayna with her left hand while reaching back for the grip of her Glock with her right. “Jerry, let her go.” Antlerhead’s head bobbled at the sound of his name and he glared at Cassie. He kept Nayna in the chokehold.

Cassie hoped the waitress could get enough air to stay conscious. “Who in the hell are you? This is a private conversation.” He even sounded dumb. “It’s not a conversation, it’s an assault,” Cassie said. “Let her go right now or I’ll blow your stupid head off.” She drew her gun as she said it and leveled it at Antlerhead. The front sight was aimed squarely at the dent above his eyebrow. “Shit, man,” he said. He sounded offended. “Put that down and turn that camera off.

” Cassie steadied the weapon and hoped her hand wouldn’t tremble. Then he relaxed his grip on Nayna and she twisted away. As soon as she got her balance she coughed, then turned on her heel and kicked Antlerhead so hard between his legs it lifted him off the ground. He wheezed—it was a pathetic sound—and he dropped to his knees. Nayna cocked her leg back for another kick and Cassie said, “Back off, Nayna. It’s over.” “It ain’t over,” Nayna said as she kicked him in his sternum. “He was choking me.” Antlerhead moaned and fell over in slow motion. “I’m not kidding,” Cassie said to her.

“That’s enough or I’ll call the cops on both of you.” “He’s supposed to be in jail anyway,” Nayna said. “He won’t leave me alone.” “I get that.” “Who are you anyway?” Nayna asked. Then: “Oh, I remember you from earlier. Are you some kind of cop?” “I’m a licensed private investigator. My name is Cassie Dewell. I’m here to take our friend back to his parents’ house.” “He ain’t my friend.

” “He used to be.” “Well, he ain’t no more. He’s an asshole.” “I’ll give you that.” Cassie neared Antlerhead and holstered her weapon. He writhed on the asphalt with both of his hands clamped between his thighs. His clothing was white from the film of ash on the ground. “Did you hear that, Jerry? It’s time to go home. We can do this without getting the police involved. How does that sound?” “Just get him out of here,” Nayna said.

“I don’t ever want to see his stupid fucking face again for the rest of my life.” From Antlerhead, a childlike sob. His body shook as he cried. “Come on, Jerry,” Cassie said. “Let’s go over to that Jeep across the street.” “Nayna,” he cried. “Nayna.” Cassie could see that Nayna was positioning herself for another kick so she stepped between them. The waitress backed away. “Please get back to work,” Cassie told her.

* Arm in arm, they staggered across the street toward her Jeep. Antlerhead was unsteady on his feet and he hadn’t stopped sobbing. Cassie saw the Big Timber PD unit turn the corner and drive slowly down McLeod Street toward them. “Straighten up,” Cassie said sharply. “Act like a man.” She guided him into the passenger seat and closed the door. Antlerhead slumped forward and put his head in his hands. Cassie would have preferred to cuff him and stow him in the back for the drive to Laurel but she didn’t want to draw attention from the local cop who passed by. “That was close,” she said as she climbed in and turned the key to the ignition. “Nayna.

” “Oh, please,” Cassie said as she drove cautiously out of town toward I-90. “You’re not the victim here.” “The hell I ain’t,” he said. “She told me she loved me once and now she kicks me in the nuts.” That struck Cassie as funny and she looked away so he couldn’t see the expression on her face. The release of tension from the situation and Antlerhead’s perceived victimhood made her want to laugh out loud. After a few minutes, she said, “Let me know when you stop crying and can hold it together long enough for me to return a phone call.” two The law offices of Mitchell-Estrella were on the second floor of a newish office building on Main Street on the western flank of downtown Bozeman. It was a cool sunny morning tainted by the brackish odor of smoke from the forest fires in the mountains. Not until the temperature climbed to forty-five degrees would the inversion layer open up and allow the smoke to disperse into the atmosphere.

Cassie parked in the first visitor space in the lot and fished a notebook out of her handbag. She left the tools and weapons and stuffed the bag under the passenger seat so it couldn’t be seen from the outside. Before getting out, she paused and sighed heavily. She was tired and it wasn’t even nine in the morning. She’d not arrived home until one thirty after delivering Antlerhead to Buford and Nadine Allen, and she’d been up at six forty-five to make breakfast for Ben and spend some time with him before he went to school and Isabel got up. Of course, her son had barely spoken, and when she asked him about school, wrestling practice, and his friends he’d said all were “fine.” “Just fine?” He rolled his eyes, exasperated with her. “What do you want me to say, Mom?” Fourteen-year-old boys were a challenge. And so was making the effort to see Rachel Mitchell, even though Cassie had known this day would come. Climbing the stairs to Rachel’s office, she fought the feeling that she was crossing a line that she didn’t want to cross.

* Everything that happened in western Montana happened in one of the valleys between mountain ranges. The towns, the roads, the rivers, and the railroads were all funneled into the valleys between the Absaroka and Beartooth Range to the southeast, the Gallatins and Crazies to the southwest, the Bridger, Big Belt, and Elkhorn ranges to the north, and the Bitterroots to the northwest. Cassie worked those valleys on a daily basis, and it wasn’t unusual for her to drive three hundred miles in a day as a private investigator working several different cases at once. She was the owner and principal of Dewell Investigations, LLC. She was a fully licensed private investigator and her services included skip tracing, asset searches, background checks, fraud, criminal defense investigations, domestic cases, and surveillance. Her Montana PI license number was number 7775. After years of existing in the backstabbing bureaucracy of local law enforcement, she’d decided to strike out on her own. She thought it would be a good move for her and a good thing for Ben. Cassie liked the ideas of setting her own hours, choosing her own cases, and being her own boss. Her career in law enforcement had been intense and tumultuous.

She’d pursued and taken down Ronald Pergram, the infamous Lizard King, who was a serial rapist and murderer who operated as a long-haul trucker. He’d also become her obsession. She’d also shot and killed Montana state trooper Rick Legerski who was a coconspirator of Pergram’s and the murderer of Cassie’s mentor, Cody Hoyt. Her work as chief investigator in North Dakota both saved the life of a then fourteen-year-old boy with fetal alcohol syndrome and dismantled a violent MS-13-financed drug ring. But instead of kudos and promotions, Cassie had been made the scapegoat by a politically ambitious county attorney for a sting operation that went horribly wrong and resulted in the deaths of several fellow deputies including her fiancé at the time. She’d eventually been cleared and offered her job back, but she couldn’t make herself put on a badge again. Although her sense of justice and respect for the law remained intact, her enthusiasm to “ride for the brand” had been crushed. There had been too many self-aggrandizing officials, too much misanthropy among the good old boys in the system, and too much politicization instead of investigation. She still wanted to put bad guys away and protect innocent people, but she could no longer fight the bureaucracy in order to do that. It had all worked, sort of.

Her idea of setting her own hours and not being beholden to a departmental superior had resulted in longer days, fewer vacations, and serving the toughest boss of all— herself. Setting up shop had been more difficult than she thought it would be. She hadn’t given enough thought about how tough it was to deal with landlords or the city administration when it came to leasing space and setting up shop. There were so many taxes and fees it was as if the system was set up to make her fail. The hardest part, though, was overcoming her aversion to private investigators due to her years in local law enforcement in Montana and most recently North Dakota. Jon Kirkbride, the sheriff of Bakken County and her boss in NoDak, once told her, “TSA agents are folks who were too dumb to pass the test for a job at the post office, and private investigators are folks too dumb to qualify for the TSA.” Nevertheless, she met the minimum license requirements in Montana and passed a background investigation and fingerprint check, she had the requisite experience in spades, and she could afford the two-hundred-fifty-dollar application fee and the premiums for a half-million-dollar commercial liability policy. Her references included cops she’d worked with in her native Montana as well as Kirkbride, who wished her well. She’d passed the examination for private investigators with the highest score ever recorded, according to the clerk who’d administered it. And for another fiftydollar fee, she’d automatically received a firearms endorsement because of her previous qualification certificates on the range in both states.

She was a neophyte when it came to hiring competent clerical and administrative help. In the two years since she’d launched Dewell Investigations, she’d been through five administrative assistants. Two had left on their own and three had been fired for incompetence. If it wasn’t for Isabel filling in—her mother justified the hours as “assisting the downtrodden of society”—Cassie might have given up or gone to work for someone else. Or even put aside her revulsion and applied with the local sheriff’s department or police department. Income hadn’t been an issue after the first four months of her new enterprise. Word got around that she was professional, efficient, and honest. She had more work than she could handle and she had the luxury of not taking unsavory cases—usually. She’d been told more times than she cared to be told that she “didn’t look like a private investigator” and she was never sure how to take the comment. Cassie was in her mid-thirties, five foot four, ten to fifteen pounds overweight, and her hair was thick and unruly.

She didn’t have the commanding presence that would instantly bring a room to order, and she was more of a listener than a talker. Since she no longer wore a uniform, she was rarely taken for a cop. The only person in her life who thought otherwise was Ben, who said she had “cop eyes.” Whatever that meant. Cassie had quickly become the PI of choice for several bail bondsmen, a half-dozen insurance companies, two car dealerships, the county realtors’ group, and one criminal defense firm: MitchellEstrella. * Mitchell-Estrella was gaining both prominence and notoriety in Montana legal circles. Although partners Rachel Mitchell and Jessica Estrella were Cassie’s age and the firm was less than ten years old and the majority of their clients were still lowlifes looking for plea deals, Mitchell-Estrella had recently won acquittals in several high-profile criminal trials. The most lurid case involved Monte Schreiner, the ex-governor of the state who’d been accused of hiring a transient to murder his mistress near his vacation cabin by hitting her over the head with an oar, loading her unconscious body in a drift boat, and pushing it out onto Flathead Lake where she was later found dead of exposure. Cassie had carefully followed the trial in the Bozeman Daily Chronicle. The blustery Schreiner, who was known for his frequent appearances on cable television news shows wearing a bolo tie and who brought his dog along to every event, came across in news reports as likely guilty to most Montanans, Cassie included.

In a state where nearly everyone had met the governor and seen him in action on a personal basis, it just seemed like the kind of thing he would do. Cassie had once seen the governor work a room and put his hands on every person in it, lingering just a little too long with the younger and attractive women whether they were married or not. The transient, who admitted to the crime and agreed to turn state’s witness against Governor Schreiner, was shredded on the stand and caught in a half-dozen lies by attorney Rachel Mitchell. Mrs. Schreiner, who eagerly wanted to see her husband sent to prison and had agreed to testify against him, was forced to admit under Rachel’s cross-examination that she had conducted multiple affairs in the past and that she’d exchanged text messages with a fly-fishing guide promising to be with him if “she could just get rid of Monte.” Monte Schreiner was found not guilty and Mrs. Schreiner had moved to Seattle. After the verdict, Rachel gave a press conference on the courthouse steps declaring that justice had been done. Cassie saw the clip on the news and thought that a guilty man with a sharp and aggressive lawyer had beaten the system. Although the prosecution’s case had some holes in it—didn’t they all?—this was the kind of thing that had soured her about the criminal justice system in the first place.

She’d vowed not to ever be a part of it. * But Cassie and Rachel Mitchell had history. Rachel’s father, Bull, had been a cantankerous outfitter who had guided both Cassie and her mentor Cody Hoyt into the Yellowstone wilderness. Cody had been in pursuit of a client on a multiday horse pack trip who was also a multiple murderer. Cassie had later hired Bull to go after the Lizard King. Rachel had been in the middle of both situations, both trying to look out for her father’s welfare and providing local legal counsel. Against her better judgment as well as Rachel’s admonitions, Cassie had persuaded Bull to come out of retirement one more time and even though he was excited to go and at the time was rejuvenated by the adventure, his physical and mental health deteriorated rapidly upon his return. Although still in Rachel’s home in his own special wing, Bull rarely ventured out of his recliner and frequently forgot the names of his daughter, son-in-law, and grandchildren. He only came to life during prime time on Fox News, when he awoke to rail and shake his fist at liberals. Although Rachel didn’t blame Cassie outright for Bull’s rapid decline, Cassie felt tremendous guilt for her direct role in it and she knew her requests of him had accelerated his physical and mental decline.

She felt she owed Bull and Rachel, but she’d also made it clear to Rachel that she didn’t like the idea of helping to exonerate Rachel’s criminal clients no matter who they were. Rachel had assured Cassie that she’d never ask her to do work that would “offend her sensibilities.” She’d said it in a wry and irritating way, Cassie thought. Shortly after that conversation, the firm of Mitchell-Estrella sent the first monthly retainer check to Dewell Investigations. Cassie weighed the decision but cashed it. She needed the money to get started. By doing so she acknowledged her obligation. Which was why the phone call the night before had thrown Cassie off her game. She knew at the time that Rachel was calling to collect. * Rachel Mitchell stood up from behind her desk as Cassie entered her office.

Rachel was slim, stylish, and graceful—everything Cassie was not. The attorney had auburn hair, a sly smile, and green eyes. The credenza behind her desk was filled with framed photos of her teenage boys white-water rafting, fishing, and skiing at the local mountain called Bridger Bowl. There was a large shot of Rachel and her handsome husband waving from the basket of a hot air balloon taken somewhere tropical. A black-and-white still showed a much-younger Bull Mitchell astride a horse guiding a long string of pack horses into the Yellowstone Park wilderness. “Cassie, you look tired,” Rachel said after grasping both of Cassie’s hands in hers in a firm greeting. Right to the point. “You don’t,” Cassie replied. She knew Rachel either ran or swam every morning before coming to work to stay healthy and fit. “I was up late on a case,” Cassie said as she sat down in one of two leather-bound chairs across from Rachel’s desk.

She dropped her handbag on the surface of the other. “Anything I should know about?” “I don’t think so. A skip trace in Big Timber. He’s back home with his family for the moment awaiting trial.” “Sounds like one of our clients,” Rachel said with a smile. “I can’t say.” Cassie knew that Antlerhead’s attorney had been assigned through the public defender’s office for his new trial and that Rachel took fewer and fewer of those kind of charity cases. Either way, it was unprofessional for Cassie to discuss her clients. “Well, I’m glad you’re in one piece,” Rachel said. “It can’t be fun going after desperate people.

” “It isn’t. But it’s part of the job.” “You’re doing well for yourself,” Rachel said as she glided into her chair. “I’m very pleased to see how well you’ve done here.” “Thank you.” “I think it’s important that we stick together as much as we can, you know?” Cassie nodded her agreement. They’d had this conversation before. Like her own small private investigations firm, Mitchell-Estrella was owned solely by women. Rachel seemed to be more concerned about the fact than Cassie ever was, but it was certainly a bond between them and something Rachel often brought up. This was Montana, after all—the land of big skies, Gary Cooper, ranches the size of small countries, and barely a million people.

Cassie had grown up there and was pleased to be back. But there was no doubt that prejudice and misogyny lingered in backwards pockets. A criminal defense firm run by women was a rarity. Rachel had once told Cassie that when she got together with Jessica Estrella to form their partnership, they were both known by their middle name of Angela. Angela Estrella and Angela Mitchell. They’d agreed to change their professional names to avoid being marginalized and lumped together in the legal community and law enforcement as “the Angelas.” “And how is Ben?” “He seems to be doing all right,” Cassie said. “It’s hard for a teenager to fit into a new place and a new school but he seems to be doing fine.” Rachel nodded her approval. She’d remembered Ben’s name and Cassie couldn’t recall any of the names of Rachel’s boys.

She felt her neck flush red. Rachel had a way—whether intentional or not— of making Cassie feel inadequate. Cassie thought it might be one of Rachel’s techniques for getting what she wanted out of people, and it likely served her well with witnesses in the courtroom. “Jake, Van, and Andrew are doing well,” Rachel said breezily as if to bail her out. “They grow up so quickly, but I’d be lying if I said I wanted all my little boys back. Jake and Van have discovered girls and I’m lucky to see them at all. Andrew, though, is like a young Bull. All he wants to do is go up into the mountains to fish and kill animals. He’s been hardwired like that since he was a baby.” “Ben’s a wrestler,” Cassie said.

“He’s not very good but he’s trying.” In fact, he’d lost every match thus far in the season. She hoped he’d stick with it. Isabel disliked sports and encouraged Ben to “find his passion,” whatever that was. It was one of several items of contention between Cassie and her mother in regard to raising Ben. Cassie contemplated trying to get Ben together with Andrew Mitchell because Ben complained about never having the opportunity to go fishing. Cassie felt guilty about that but she didn’t know how to teach him and at the moment there wasn’t a man around who could. She wondered if Andrew would take Ben under his wing or if that was a disaster of an idea cooked up by a sometimes desperate single mother. There was a pause and Rachel said, “We’ve got a new client and I’d like you to investigate the circumstances of his arrest.” There it was.

Cassie raised her eyebrows. “The circumstances of his arrest?” “Everything about it. From the charge to the investigation to the arrest. I’m very interested to hear what an experienced investigator like yourself thinks of everything that has happened to date.” “Who are we talking about?” “Our client is Blake Kleinsasser.” Cassie jumped in her chair as if poked from behind. “No way.” “Hear me out,” Rachel said without a smile.


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